


All I Heard was My Heart

by MythicalTzu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Denial is cozy, Doctor/patient wtf, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Past Childhood Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22248451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythicalTzu/pseuds/MythicalTzu
Summary: Hannibal is behaving strangely, and Will is concerned.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 144
Collections: 2019 Eat The Rude Secret Santa





	All I Heard was My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to DreamerinSilico for the beta work and general advice.  
> Written for VergofTowels.

The first time it happens, they’re in the middle of a session. Or a “conversation,” as Hannibal insists they call his therapy, but whatever, Will isn’t here to argue. Will is recounting unsettling dreams that often leave him panicked and soaking in sweat, ruining his sleep and plunging him into muddled misery for days afterward. He’s hopeful that Hannibal’s insight will set things right, but when he finishes speaking Hannibal jumps to his feet and rushes towards the bathroom.

Will is startled, never having glimpsed so much as a single crack in Hannibal’s impeccable professionalism before. He waits, of course. When the clock ticks away twenty whole minutes, he crosses the room. He hesitates, then knocks.

“Hannibal? You okay?”

There’s a lengthy pause before a muffled voice assures him he’ll return in just a moment.

Will is uneasy, but goes back to his chair and waits another seven minutes (not that he’s watching the clock) before Hannibal emerges.

“My apologies, Will,” he says, gracefully retaking his seat. “I was unwell.”

Will eyes him. “I should go,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “You should rest. We can pick up again next week; I’m sure I’ll still be a mess then.”

“No, I’m better now. Please, stay.” There’s a slight pleading tone to his voice that catches Will’s ear. He’s not sure what to do with it; it’s both completely sincere and utterly discordant. 

Will looks directly at Hannibal’s face, frowning as he studies his expression. He’s pale, his eyes puffy and ringed pink. “You look like you’re coming down with something,” he says at last.

“Is that your expert opinion, Dr. Graham?”

“Yeah.” His lips twitch at a smile. “But I’m almost certain you’re gonna live. I’ll see you next week, unless I lose my mind before then.”

—

Things return to normal for a time, or at least as normal as they can be when most days are spent mired in the most twisted murders Jack can procure. He’s almost forgotten about the interrupted therapy session when he’s invited to dinner at Hannibal’s house. He accepts gratefully; he can’t remember the last time he ate something that didn’t come frozen in a box. 

One moment Hannibal is showing off his culinary skills, expertly julienning vegetables and flash-frying savories and mincing bunches of home-grown herbs. The next he’s handing Will a glass of wine and rushing to the pantry, which doesn’t seem odd at first. Even the most experienced chef occasionally forgets an ingredient, and Will thinks little of it as he drinks his wine. Minutes tick by, each longer than the last. When he reaches the bottom of his glass, he walks to the pantry.

“Hannibal? Are you okay?”

There’s a long pause.

“Yes. Just a moment longer. My apologies.”

Will frowns as he registers the unexpectedly nasal sounding voice and the bitten-off words. “Can I come in?”

There’s an even longer pause this time. “No. Please. I’ll be just a moment.”

Will leans against the closed door, palms sweating. Long moments pass, punctuated by what he suspects are muffled sobs. Finally, he sinks to the floor, prepared for a much longer wait.

“I’m still here,” he says later. It might have been ten minutes, it might have been an hour. “I’m not going anywhere.” He sits and waits, mind spinning and heart aching.

—

The third time is completely understandable.

The crime scene is hushed and solemn. Even law enforcement officers with decades of experience have tears in their eyes. A CSI is ushered away after he vomits between his feet. The murder of an innocent six-year-old is horrific enough, but what’s been done to this particular child is enough to break the strongest minds.

Jack is trying to clear the area for Will, but there’s too many people and too many moving parts. Evidence collection can’t be delayed, but the specialists are too shaken to do their jobs promptly. Everything must be photographed and cataloged and preserved, but law enforcement also has to keep the child’s distraught relatives from the blood-splattered horror. 

He doesn’t know why Hannibal is present. He’s horrified to spot him just yards from the mangled body. That horror grows as he moves closer and gets a clear look at Hannibal’s colorless lips and stricken expression.

“This way,” he murmurs, taking his arm and leading him from the others. It’s not unusual to see strong reactions to these sorts of scenes, and no one is paying the psychologist particular attention, but he doesn’t want any inadvertent witnesses. “You shouldn’t be here. Did you drive? Give me your keys and I’ll take you home.”

“Jack wants my input.” His voice cracks through the words. “He wants all the help he can get. My observations might be able to prevent this from happening again.” Fresh tears well in his eyes as he speaks. 

“Jack will have to settle for you looking at photographs and contributing to my profile later,” Will says, fighting back a surge of anger. “You shouldn’t be here. No one who hasn’t been specifically trained for this sort of scene should be here.”

“I’m sorry, Will.” 

“It’s okay, you’re fine, this is just a fucked up situation and…” He doesn’t know what else to say, so he closes the distance between then and wraps his arms tightly around Hannibal’s shoulders. There’s a moment of resistance before Hannibal relaxes and leans his head against Will’s neck, allowing Will to rub slow circles against his back.

—

“Your boyfriend’s here,” one of the techs informs him while he’s pouring over the photographs on his desk, allowing ugly images to invade his mind as he reaches out to explore the crime scene. It takes him a moment to reorient himself to the present. 

“…what?”

“Your boyfriend? In the waiting area. He told me not to bother you if you’re busy, but I decided you might want to know. Even though you’re busy.”

“My… boyfriend?” He rubs at his eyes, attempting to chase away vestiges of his imagination. “Is that a joke?”

The young tech goes pale. “Um, no? I mean, I wasn’t joking. He’s out in the waiting area and I, um, I thought you should know… I mean I saw you two together yesterday and I thought, I mean…”

Will waves him off with a frustrated gesture, embarrassed, and is relieved when the man departs without another word. He takes another moment compose himself before exiting his office and joining Hannibal in the waiting area.

Hannibal is a study in quiet anxious energy, eyes watchful, hands twisting against his coat. As soon as he sees Will, he begins speaking. “Will. I want to apologize for yesterday. I distracted you from your job, which is inexcusable. I don’t know what to say for myself, except to promise that it will never happen again.”

Will is already shaking his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” His pitches his voice low, painfully aware that others are within earshot. “Like I said, you shouldn’t have been there at all, and I told Jack as much. Having you read field reports is one thing, but having you physically present on scenes like that is something else entirely.” 

“Even so.” Hannibal’s voice is low and terribly slow. “I took you away from your work, and your work is important. I wanted to apologize to you in person, out of my office.”

“There’s no need.” Will steels himself to make eye contact for several seconds before glancing away. “Your well-being is more important to me than this work.” The words are out before he’s given them any consideration, but once they’re spoken he finds he doesn’t have any regrets.

Hannibal looks stunned, his mouth opening and closing before he replies. “You doing this work is important to a lot of people. You save lives with what you do. It would be entirely selfish of me to distract you from it in any way.”

Will shrugs. “Maybe I do, but maybe regular cops would catch the perp a day or two after I did my thing. Maybe I’d be saving more lives expertly repairing boat motors for fishermen.” He pauses. “You busy tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Friday. End of my work week, at least I hope. I was thinking I could make dinner for you this time.”

Hannibal’s smile is so tentative Will’s heart aches. “I think I could clear my schedule for that. Seven?”

“It’s a date.”

—

He spends the rest of the day kicking himself for his choice of words, even though Hannibal gave no reaction at all. The remaining time is spent deliberating over his menu, which in the end isn’t so much a menu as it is two dishes, grilled fish and a hastily chopped salad. At least he thought to grab a loaf of bakery bread and fresh butter, so he doesn’t feel entirely unprepared for company. 

It helps that Hannibal arrives not in his usual suit but dressed casually, in a soft-looking pullover that compliments his complexion. “I hope red wine is suitable,” he says, handing Will a heavy bottle. “Perhaps I should have brought white as well.”

“Red is perfect,” Will says, accepting it gratefully. “If you don’t think it goes well with fish, then we can drink it on empty stomachs beforehand. Maybe it will make my cooking seem impressive.”

Hannibal matches his smile. “I’m already impressed. Very few people are brave enough to cook for me. They seem to believe I’ll spend the evening judging their skills when really, I’m just glad for the company.”

Will considers this as he searches through a cluttered drawer for his bottle opener. “I suppose that’s the price you pay for being such an intimidating chef.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Hannibal lines up their glasses for him to fill. “It smells wonderful, by the way.”

“Take a seat.” Will inclines his head towards the table, set with mismatched plates but real napkins. “The fish should be just about ready. I’ll do my best to get it inside without the dogs demanding their share.” Fortunately his dogs are well-trained and he’s already fed them, so he’s able to transfer the main dish from grill to table without embarrassment.

Hannibal praises everything as they eat, but quietly and with enough restraint that Will can believe he’s being genuine. He has to admit that the fish came out perfectly. The rough-chopped salad tastes fresh and crisp, and the butter pairs perfectly with the crusty sourdough bread. Will relaxes as he drinks his second glass of wine, pleased.

“So how was your day?”

“Unusual, but good. I decided to cancel all of my appointments and spend the afternoon resting after meeting with my therapist. She thinks I’ve been pushing myself too hard. I decided to take her advice.”

Will grows serious at the mention of Hannibal’s psychiatrist. “Is she… concerned about you?”

Hannibal meets his gaze. “No, but she never is. She’s convinced that I’m invincible, perhaps not quite fully human. She tells me to drink more water and get more sleep.”

Will frowns. “Maybe you should find a different therapist.”

Hannibal rewards him with a brief smile. “She and I have a history, and in some ways she understands me perfectly. Besides, having followed her advice for the day, I’m feeling much better.”

Will is skeptical, but keeps his doubts to himself. He finishes the last few bites of fish before pushing his plate aside. 

“And how was your day?”

“Pretty good. Although I’m still feeling badly about getting irritated at the person who came to tell me about you yesterday.”

Hannibal gives a curious tilt of his head. “What made you angry? The interruption?”

“No, of course not. Well, normally I don’t like being interrupted, but of course I wanted to know you were waiting. I was angry at first because I suspected his intentions were rude.” He pauses, feeling awkward. 

Hannibal waits, patient, until Will gives a brief summary of the interaction.

“I was upset because I realized more people must have been observing us at the crime scene than I’d realized. It was dark, and most people were focused on their jobs, but I guess a few were focused on us.”

Hannibal gives a slight nod. “But that isn’t why you were angry.”

“No.”

Will tenses as he submits to a long, searching look from Hannibal, one so through that it’s like being scanned by an alien life-form. 

Finally, Hannibal speaks again, formal and clinical. “Does the idea of us being in a relationship appeal to you?”

He can’t look up, so he focuses his attention on the scars and groves in his table. “It does,” he admits at last. He wants to say more, but it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. He continues to stare at the table, fixating on a deep crevice. 

“It appeals to me as well.” A warm hand covers one of his and squeezes. His voice is soft and distant. “I… this isn’t something I was expecting to hear from you.”

He hopes that the room’s low light hides his expression, because he has no idea what he’s giving away. “It’s just… there’s one thing, first. I’d like for you to see a doctor.”

Hannibal releases his hand and frowns. “A doctor?”

He nods, eyes fixed downward. “You haven’t seemed yourself lately. I can’t help but notice that you’ve been a lot more… reactive than you usually are. I mean, outwardly.”

There’s a long pause. “I’m not sick, if that’s whats concerning you.”

“No, of course not. But even so. Sudden changes in behavior are a warning sign of various things, right? And I wouldn’t feel comfortable making any changes in how things are between us until you have a clean bill of health.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “I don’t want to worry that I’m taking advantage of you.”

Hannibal gives this a few beats of consideration. “Very well. I’ll see a doctor, and insist on an evaluation from my psychiatrist. Is there anything else you need?”

“No.” He clears his throat and fiddles with his napkin. “I just need to know that you’re okay. But even if you’re not?” It takes him a moment to force himself to look up again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Hannibal is in a good mood when he invites Will into his office for their session a few weeks later. “I have news,” he announces as he pours generous glasses of wine. “The results are back from my exams. I’m told I am in perfect health, save for perhaps a few extra pounds.” 

He places a hand against his stomach, and Will laughs. “So more salads, less bread pudding?”

Hannibal looks displeased, but his eyes are bright. “There’s space for all things in a balanced diet, but perhaps a little less sugar would be advisable at this stage of my life. Especially if one were to acquire a much-younger boyfriend.”

Will hopes the heat that pulses through his veins doesn’t show on his face. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I spoke with a therapist recommended by my primary care physician, and her advice was quite familiar.”

“Less stress, more time off, fewer murders, and more sleep?”

“Yes, precisely.” He pauses to swirl the wine in his glass, smiling. “Perhaps you should consider psychotherapy as a second career.”

Will laughs. “Third career, you mean. Or the forth, depending on how you define things. But I don’t think I’m cut out for head-shrinking.” He grows serious, eyes on Hannibal’s. “Did she have any insight for you?”

He gives a light shrug. “She mostly asked questions.”

“Ah.” Will takes a sip from his glass. The wine is excellent, no surprise. “And what is your own professional opinion?”

Hannibal’s expression flattens. “That I’m grieving.”

Will startles, nearly sloshing his wine. “You lost someone?”

Swallowing hard, Hannibal shifts his gaze from Will’s face to the far side of his office. “Yes, someone I loved dearly. But it was a long time ago, and I’ve recently found someone else I feel… similarly towards. Those feelings remind me of what I lost, and how deeply I suffered. I believe that I’ve skipped a few steps and gone straight to grief this time. I suspect it’s a method of self-preservation.”

“Skipping all the good stuff and going straight to the sorrow?” He pushes a smile into place. “Doesn’t sound like a smart choice, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Hannibal doesn’t return his smile, not exactly, but his eyes are intent on his face. “I suppose only time will tell if my instincts were self-protective or self-defeating. So.” He takes a moment to gather himself. “Do you still wish to proceed?”

Will took a long swallow from his glass before setting it on Hannibal’s desk. “I think I do. Just…”

“…Slowly?”

Will smiles, grateful that Hannibal understands. “Yeah, that. To be honest, I’ve never exactly been with another man before, and I don’t know the ins and outs of that, um, arrangement. I mean, not that I haven’t thought about it, or considered it, it’s just that I lack, uh… practical experience.”

He can see Hannibal fighting back a smile. “The ‘ins and outs’, so to speak, are fairly straightforward. But we’ll take things as slowly as you wish. I suggest we start with the very basics.” He extends a hand, palm up.

As Will reaches into the warm grasp, a deep tingling flares at his fingertips. His toes, inexplicably, do the same, causing him to shift from foot to foot. “Huh,” he marvels. “Is this what they mean when they talk about ‘sparks’?”

Hannibal smiles as he takes Will’s other hand and squeezes them both. “I felt it the very first time we met. The first time I laid eyes on you. I didn’t dare hope that it could be reciprocated.” 

Will squeezes back, not sure what else to say, so he falls silent and allows himself to enjoy the moment.

—

He knows they should probably end their “conversations” in Hannibal’s office, but their relationship is progressing slowly (three low-key dates, four kisses) and he can’t imagine sharing so much of himself with anyone else. Not yet, at least. So they continue their weekly appointments, with Hannibal sliding into his role of mental health professional with such ease it makes Will paradoxically uneasy.

If there was ever an appointment to cancel, it’s probably tonight, he thinks as he makes the drive across town. The predicted snow falls heavily and the temperature drops with each mile. A few more hours and it won’t be safe to drive. Will is kicking himself by the time he parks — he definitely should have canceled tonight.

As soon as he steps inside, Will realizes something isn’t right. “Hannibal? You okay?”

“I am.” 

He’s lying, and Will has decided Hannibal is a terrible liar. His face is pale, save for blotches of color in his cheeks and throat, and his eyes hold a strange, glassy sheen.

“Like hell.” He presses his hand to Hannibal’s forehead and is instantly alarmed. “You’re burning up. Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“No.” Hannibal frowns, seeming confused. “No, the roads are terrible. There’s a storm, you shouldn’t be driving.”

“And you should?” Will is incredulous. “I’ve been driving in poor weather for years, I’ll be fine.” He shoots a nervous glance at the windows. “But we should leave now. Let’s get your things.”

As it turns out he has no idea what to pack into his satchel, and Hannibal seems disinclined to assist him, so Will settles for helping him into his coat and then into his car.

He drives slowly and carefully as the storm worsens. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and Hannibal remains uncharacteristically silent. He speaks only once to issue a quiet warning about an abandoned vehicle, but otherwise says nothing until they arrive in Hannibal’s driveway. 

Hannibal stumbles on the icy ground as he emerges from the car, reaching for Will’s arm to steady himself. “Come on,” Will murmurs. “Let’s get you out of this storm.” He has to fish the keys out of Hannibal’s coat pocket, and it takes him several attempts to slot the key into the door.

“Okay,” he says, breathing out a long sigh of relief once they’re safely inside. “Okay. What can I do? Should I make tea? Do you want to take a shower? A cool shower, maybe.” Frowning, he checks Hannibal’s forehead again, and what he feels makes him wince. “Maybe I should have taken you to the hospital instead.”

Hannibal scoffs. “You brought me home, which is the best place for me. It’s just a cold.”

“The flu, I’m betting. Where’s your thermometer?”

It’s in the master bathroom, and Hannibal is slightly winded by the time they climb the stairs. “Sit down,” Will says, nudging him onto the bed. When he returns a few minutes later, Hannibal is leaning against the pillows, eyes glazed.

The instant-read instrument only takes a few seconds to deliver the bad news. “103.9. That’s not so good.” 

“I’ll take some Tylenol.”

Will hesitates before agreeing. “And then you should sleep.” He heads back to the bathroom in search of medication. The medicine cabinet is impeccably organized, each box and bottle set equidistant atop gleaming mirrored shelves. He can’t help but compare it to his own jumble of expired containers. 

“I’m not tired,” Hannibal calls from the other room, sounding utterly exhausted.

“Uh-huh.” He fills a water glass from the sink and returns to his patient. “What would you prescribe if I were on the one with a 103.9 degree fever?”

Hannibal recites his answer like an incantation. “Rest. Fluids. Quiet. Tylenol.” His eyes swim. “But rest doesn’t necessarily mean sleep.” 

“Fine.” Will definitely isn’t here to fight. “Take the pills, rest your eyes, and I’ll bring you some fluids.”

Hannibal’s kitchen is clean and organized. It only takes a cursory search the refrigerator to locate a jar of what he hopes is freshly-squeezed juice. It takes a bit longer to find a cannister of broth, and another few minutes to put his hands on a small package of meat. He holds it up and frowns, uncertain what cut of which animal it might be, but it’s small enough to add a bit of flavor and texture to the soup. After a bit of consideration, he washes his hands and dices it finely.

Once the soup is simmering, he carries the juice back to Hannibal, pausing to frown at him from the doorway.

“How do you look worse?”

Hannibal blinks, slowly.

With a sigh, Will sets the juice beside him and get to work. “You haven’t moved an inch, have you?” He pulls Hannibal’s shoes off and assists with the covers, loosening sheets and rearranging pillows to make him more comfortable. As he pushes stray locks of hair away from Hannibal’s eyes, Will’s fingers brush his forehead again. Still hot. Too hot. “How long does it take for the Tylenol to kick in?”

A moment passes before Hannibal replies. “Not long. Maybe another twenty minutes.”

“Here, have some of this.” He holds the juice to Hannibal’s lips and is gratified when he drinks it greedily. “The soup will be ready soon, if you’re still awake.”

“You’re making me soup?”

“Don’t get too excited. I just combined your broth with a few things I found in your fridge. I hope you don’t mind.”

Fever-bright eyes gaze upwards at him. “Of course not. My house is yours. Speaking of which, will you be staying?”

“Would you mind? That storm keeps getting worse, and I wouldn’t feel right leaving you alone like this.”

Hannibal looks as pleased as an ill person possibly can. “My guest room is down the hall, but I should warn you that the sheets haven’t been changed in… well, I’m not certain. At least a fortnight.”

Will nearly laughs. “I sleep on a mattress with my dogs.”

“Your dogs.” Hannibal reaches for the glass again and finishes the juice before continuing. “Will they survive without you?”

“They will. I fed them after work, and they have the dog door and the run I installed after I started working for Jack. They’ll be fine. Maybe a bit cold, but they have each other for warmth.” He pause and clears his throat. “I’ll stay in here and read while you rest. At what point should I call 911?”

He’s joking, but Hannibal appears to take him seriously.

“If I fall unconscious and you can’t wake me. If my temperature suddenly spikes. If I have a seizure. Or if I stop breathing.”

Will must look alarmed, because Hannibal gives him a reassuring smile. 

“Will, I’m kidding. It’s just a fever. It will pass.” His eyelids droop as he speaks.

Will watches him for awhile before picking up the empty glass and returning to the kitchen. The soup is bubbling away, so he turns off the heat and pours some into a small bowl. It doesn’t smell quite right, but it’s soup and it’s hot and he figures he’s done the best that he can for now. Soup and more juice are delivered to Hannibal’s bedside, but fortunately Hannibal has finally surrendered to sleep.

With a sigh of relief, Will selects a book from the well-stocked shelf and takes a seat in the corner chair. He reads the first few chapters but it’s difficult to focus with the storm raging outside. The wind screams, the windows rattle, and unfamiliar parts of the house groan as if suffering. 

He almost jumps to the ceiling when, without warning, the room plunges into darkness.

“Great,” he mutters into the darkness. “Just, great.” 

But the chair is comfortable enough, and he can still listen to the reassuring sound of Hannibal’s slow, steady breathing. That’s his plan, to sit and listen and react if anything else goes wrong, but eventually he finds himself drifting. He doesn’t sleep, not exactly, but the twilight world of half-wakefulness beckons. His thoughts loosen, and his limbs grow heavy.

He might be entirely asleep when he’s suddenly jolted back to consciousness by the sound of one of his dogs in distress. Is it Winston? He gropes around by his feet and when his fingers don’t connect with warmth or fur, he comes fully awake.

“Hannibal?”

A soft whimper of despair ends in a strangled sob. “Where are you? Come back. Please come back.”

Will pushes himself out of the chair and feels his way to the bed. “I’m here,” he says, climbing on top of the blankets and reaching for Hannibal’s arm. “The power went out, but everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Mischa.” Hannibal’s voice is warm and tender. He takes Will’s fingers within his impossibly hot grasp. “I couldn’t find you. Were you playing in the snow again? Is that why you’re so cold?”

Will swallows hard. “I’m not cold, you’re hot. From the fever. Hannibal, it’s me, Will. Do you have a flashlight around here? I should take your temperature again. Give you more meds. I’m not sure how long it’s been.”

He turns over and wraps an arm around Will’s waist, pulling him closer. “You have to be careful,” he whispers. “They watch you. They’re always waiting for their chance, and you can’t let down your guard.” He tightens his grasp. “Stay here with me, so I can keep you safe.”

Alarmed, Will attempts to pull away. “I’m not that person,” he says slowly, carefully. “I’m here because you’re sick. Hannibal, please tell me you know who I am.” 

Hannibal clings to him all the more tightly. “Don’t go,” he begs. “I can’t bear to lose you again.” He buries his face against Will’s neck and it’s hot, so hot Will marvels that he doesn’t ignite. But then wetness is dripping down his skin as Hannibal shakes against him. Warm tears burn as they trickle down his neck.

Will strokes his hair, helpless. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, again and again. “I should have protected you. I’m so sorry.”

Will holds him close, occasionally murmuring what he hopes are comforting sounds. Eventually, Hannibal falls silent again, and sleeps.

Will doesn’t.

—

He wakes several hours later, hands twitching at Will’s clothing. “Water,” he croaks.

“Hold on.” Will disentangles himself from Hannibal’s grasp to feel for the empty glass. It’s on the bedside table, along with the now-cold soup. He transports both to the bathroom, where he refills the glass and manages to twist the cap from the Tylenol bottle.

“Take these.” He places three pills in Hannibal’s palm and helps him drink from the glass. Hannibal downs the pills in one swallow before his hands fall away; the glass would have fallen had Will not also been holding it.

He climbs back onto the bed and tries to focus on Hannibal’s face in the darkness. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s voice is muffled as he leans against Will’s arm. “Come under the covers with me.”

Will hesitates. “I’ll overheat you. You’re burning up, and I run hot.”

“I’m freezing.”

He sounds so miserable that Will gives up the argument for now and climbs into the bed. He does his best not to crowd him but his efforts are lost as Hannibal immediately closes the distance between them. “You’re safe here,” he whispers, pulling Will to his chest. “Just stay as quiet as you can.”

Will wiggles an arm between them, poised to push Hannibal back if need be. “I’m not that person,” he says, slow and steady. “I’m Will, remember?”

There’s a long, pained pause before Hannibal responds. “Yes. I know.”

He’s unconvinced, but keeps quiet.

“You are Will Graham. You’re here because I’m unwell.”

“Yes.” 

Hannibal’s breathing grows slow and deep again as he drifts away. Will keeps his hand pressed against Hannibal’s chest, fretting over the heat pouring off his body.

“I don’t,” Hannibal mumbles, minutes or maybe hours later. “…Mischa.”

“Will.” 

“Will. Of course, Will. I love you.”

“Go back to sleep.” Will heart is pounding, and sweat beads at the back of his neck. “You need rest.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

Will clears his throat, irrationally hoping that the act will also bring clarity to his muddled mind. “I’m not gonna die. At least not anytime soon.”

“But the soup.”

“The soup?” Will rubs at his forehead, wondering is maybe he’s caught Hannibal’s illness and that’s why nothing makes sense. “You want soup?”

“No.” The word comes out as a long sigh. “Don’t touch the meat. I shouldn’t have eaten it. I loved you.”

“Please.” Will’s voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. “Rest now. We can talk all you like once you’re better.”

“I’m better now. You make me better.”

“If only I were that powerful.” He presses a kiss against Hannibal’s temple, murmuring suggestions about sleep.

—

When he opens his eyes again, it’s dawn. Thin gray light steams into the room. He reaches for Hannibal, and is relieved to find that he’s sleeping soundly. The fever has broken, and his skin is reassuringly cool. Exhaling with relief, he gets up, washes his face, and heads to the kitchen.

He starts coffee, which bubbles and brews while he cleans. When he reaches the pan of soup, he hesitates, frowning. The slightly oily contents have congealed, and he can’t believe he ever thought it fit to serve Hannibal. He swirls it around a few times, transfixed by the remains before slowly, carefully pouring it into the sink. 

Once the sink is clear, he re-opens the fridge and removes the remaining meat. There isn’t much left, and he could just put it into the freezer for Hannibal to use later.

Instead, he drops it into the trash.

Then he pours himself a mug of coffee and sits, deliberately not thinking. 

Some time later, Hannibal enters the kitchen, freshly showered and wearing loose clothes.

“You’re awake.”

“I live to fight another day.” His smile is wan and draws new lines around his mouth and eyes.

“Sit.” Will pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll get you some coffee, I made it… well, pretty recently.”

“Black is fine.” He trails Will over to the counter.

“I can’t fuss over you that way,” Will points out while filling a cup and stirring in a measured teaspoon of sugar. He considers adding cream as well, but for some reason doesn’t want to open the fridge again.

Hannibal’s smile is more certain as he accepts his coffee with a nod of gratitude. “You cleaned.”

“Wasn’t much to clean. How do you feel?” Will hesitates, then lightly brushes his fingers across Hannibal’s forehead.

“Terrible.” He sets aside the coffee. “But lucid, which I’m sure is an improvement.” His faint smile slips away, replaced by a troubled expression. “I vaguely remember being confused last night. And confusing you.”

“You had a high fever.” He pauses, certain that Hannibal is going to let the silence linger between them until he says more. “You didn’t always know who I was. You were calling me ‘Mischa.’”

Hannibal goes still. “Mischa was my sister.”

“Oh.” Will does his best to keep his expression neutral. “Hannibal, I’m sorry.”

He nods stiffly, looking at the wall behind Will. “I imagine you’re curious. I promise to tell you about her another time.”

Will shrugs, discomfort causing both his toes and fingers to curl. “You didn’t say much. Mostly that you loved her.”

“Her?” Hannibal’s unsettling gaze settles on Will’s face again. “That’s very kind of you, giving me an out like that. But I’m not sure you’re doing either of us a favor by pretending I was only talking about her.”

Blood rushes in his ears. “You also said that you love me,” he says, each word slow and deliberate.

“I did. Because I do.”

He watches Hannibal’s expression on the fringes of his vision. It’s somehow both transparent and unreadable. “You don’t even know me.”

“I think I do.” He edges closer by incremental degrees. “I wasn’t planning to tell you quite so soon, though. Not until I thought you might be receptive, but once again I find myself not entirely in control.”

“Which is scary.”

“Yes.” The distance between them closes by another fraction. “Nothing is more frightening than the loss of control — except, perhaps, love.”

“And the two are connected.” Will surprises himself with laughter. “I have to go,” he says, suddenly soaring with a crazy sort of energy. “My dogs are waiting for their breakfast, and the one thing they hold grudges over is a delay in their food.”

“Not yet.” Suddenly, Hannibal is so close Will can feel his breath. “I need to know. Is there anything more that you need before you’re ready to give this a chance? Or have you changed your mind?”

“I haven’t,” he says carefully. “But there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

He’s barely breathing, but he nods.

“Maybe a few things that it would be best for me not to know,” Will continues. “At least not yet.” He leans forward and gently kisses Hannibal’s dry lips, just barely making contact before pulling back with a smile.

“More of that later. You need to rest.”

He’s pleased by the certain knowledge that the flush on Hannibal’s cheeks has nothing to do with fever.

—

When it happens again, Will is calm.

He’s trudging through the snow on his way back from a walk. Hannibal is waiting for him on the porch. He’s staring off into the distance and barely seems to notice when Will returns, dogs in tow.

“Hey.” He crouches down beside Hannibal’s chair, close but not touching. “You okay?”

“I am,” Hannibal replies, not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “I was just somewhere else.”

“Well.” Will infuses his tone with cheerfulness that probably just sounds awkward. “Glad you returned. I really like having you here, with me.”

Hannibal looks at him with a steady expression and places a hand on his shoulder. “And I enjoying being here, with you.” He pauses. “Someday, I want you to fully join me.”

Will leans in closer and lowers his voice. “My plan is to be where you are. Pretty much always, unless you really piss me off.” He presses a kiss against Hannibal’s parted lips, then rises to open the door for them.


End file.
